


Search and destroy

by Zeratul



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cats, Established Relationship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Romance, daily life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeratul/pseuds/Zeratul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the easiest task may turn out a local disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Search and destroy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a true story. I mean, on real cats. I mean, on the actual catpiss. Wellyougotit.  
> The same story in Russian ["Найти и обезвредить"](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3961551).
> 
> Music: Elvis Presley — Surrender

“I’ve just taken a sleeping pill, so you’re late, James,” the quatermaster murmured with a demonstrative yawn from under his shepherd's plaid, but started coughing the same moment when eventually breathed in the smell of alcohol from Bond’s mouth and covered himself back.

Double-oh-seven winked slowly, replaying his words inside his head and analyzing the grade of the irritation put in that, meanwhile, did not exceed the usual limit.

“Hm-m, that could be worse,” he told more to himself.

“Before you join me,” it seemed that the quatermaster was quite sure that having such an amount of alcohol in his blood Bond would not stay straight for long, “I have a task for you. Your namesake created a little puddle somewhere, and I could not find where. Your task is the same — search and destroy.”

“Hm. Aknowledged. Any details?”

“Cats should not be killed,” Q raised his finger instructively before his weakened organism switched off, defeated by the sleeping pill. Double-oh-seven even envied a little to such sensibility — only in particular cases, of’course.

He dropped his jacket on the old chair’s back and looked around. One of his opponents — black outbred cat with shiny smooth fur — was peacefully sleeping on a stranded carpet near his bowl. Finding the second one was, as always, more difficult.

“You. Where is your mate?” Bond carefully raised the sleeping animal in front of him. Cat questionably lifted his ears and twitched his paws. “Come on, just tell me the truth and I will let you go peacefully. I’ll even pretend I did not se those scratching of yours on the wallpapers.”

The cat wrinkled and turned away, refusing to appreciate the smell, coming from double-oh-seven’s throat and containing at least half a litre of martini dry and a quater of litre of whiskey, as well.

“I see, you do not want to make it easy,” he brought the cat closer to his face and sneered. Cat, expecting the worst, tried to hit the agent with his back paws, but the attack eventually hit his own chin. Meanwhile Bond stood up and moved into the kitchen, looking for some suitable torture instrument on his way. His choice fell on the orange skin, left by the quatermaster on the edge of the kitchen table among the other mess.

The black cat started to twitch harder, when the newly cut slice, bleeding and spluttering with caustic juice, moved closer to his face. One of the drops met his eye, the second one at the same moment treacherously flew into his nose, and the animal twitched with all his body with a displeased roar.

“I will ask again. Where is James?”

The cat meaowed loudly and managed to kick the hand that holded him with the front paw. Double-oh-seven curved his lip in displease and pressed the torture instrument straight to his furious face.

The desperate roar and hissing followed. Black fur bristeled, making the cat look like a little devil. The animal bit badly the holding hand several times, but the anestethic effect of booze, still present in the agent’s organism, effectively saved him from even noticing this fact.

“Fine. Turning to plan B. James, if you do not come out now, I will feed him with oranges!” the agent stated loud and clear.

Soon a quiet low “meaow” emerged from the bedroom and a fat stripped Scott came into the kitchen. He cast a distracted glance at the agent, then at his hostage, meaowed again and laid on his back, starting to lick his belly.

“Hm” Bond raised his eyebrows and let his victim go. Raged beyond all sane limits the black cat jumped to the table with a loud squee and started rapidly to the other part of the flat, throwing a couple of dishes and some gadget away from the table on his way and spilling the water in the bowl when making a turn.

“I am gonna kill you both when I wake up…” the quatermaster murmured, evidently after his pet ran over his head.

“We have finally met, James,” the agent slowly approached the cat that completely ignored him and squated. In response the striped animal layed down on his back and clamped his paws to his chest, evidently inviting him to stroke his big body. “You do know that does not work with me,” Bond pressed his finger in the middle of his belly. Cat started to purr loudly and stretched his paws to agent’s palm. “Just show me where and I will not hurt you,” he took an attempt to catch the cat’s ear but the animal suddenly regrouped and hopped backwards in direction of the gaming console, appropriately clashing with it and dropping down one of the speakers.

Double-oh-seven pursued him and instantly stumbled the wires, sticking out from under the console. Not paying attention to the outcoming noise, he jerked out of them and followed the beast, dexterly — as he thought — jumping above the bed and in the end of his flight meeting the just-cleaned laminated floor with his face. He sweared, stood up without hesitation and looked around again. The grey scum had disappeared, but his black mate had already recovered from the torturing, waved his tail in a business manner and attacked the agent’s leg, putting his animal lust for vengeance into every beat. Bond stepped backwards unwillingly, noticing that the cat’s actions felt unpleasently itchy. In attempts to drop away the raging beast the agent waved his leg especially strong and awkward, as a result the cat flew in direction of bedtable and double-oh-seven himself lost his balance again and fell down on the floor.

One more hit on his head disoriented him for a while. Better to say — knocked down. However it was hard to say for sure, whether it was the hit, or it was the excess of the alcohol mixture that finally fully reached his brain. Or, more likely, they joined their forces.

When Bond regained conscious he felt some heaviness within his chest. He raised his hand and discovered the source of it that calmly chose his chest as a perfect place to sleep.

“Striped bastard. Where did you piss?”

Finding his bed coming alive, the cat unwillingly jumped on the floor and lazily stepped in the direction of the front door. Feeling a little more sober after the knockdown the agent suddenly smelled something very strong from that side. He kept down and crawled close to find the striped guy unambiguously sitting on the varnished shoes standing in the shadow near the wall. Judging by the old puddle around its steps — it was not the first time.

“Objective discovered. Initiating instant annihilation,” double-oh-seven stood up and turned to the bathroom with an intention to take a duster, but the very moment he could straighten up he was attacked this time from both sides at once.

He could keep on standing only with the help of a doorway hanger that luckily came to hand, but it did not last long — while falling down with an unpleasent cracking it had almost took all the other participents of the fight to follow her. Having threatened cats with proceeding of tortures with lemon acid, Bond shook off James that flied four feets away and landed on his belly to amazed meaowing of his mate.

After restoring the eye contact with the bathroom door, the agent thought that the mission is half complete and the second half should not be something hard. The striped Scott winked lazily. Bond still was seven feet from the bathroom.

***

The quatermaster’s dream was long and restless. First thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the face of sleeping double-oh-seven, wry and covered with few rows of dry scraps. He fell asleep fully dressed, exhausted with a desperate fight against the fluffy enemy, and irreaparibly polluted all the linen either in mud, or in blood — Q did not want to make sure. His fluffy namesake, radiating with the winner pride, layed on the back of the defeated opponent and calmly looked on the awaken master.

“Does it seem to me or someone took his task too seriously?” Q asked, grabbling his eyeglasses and putting them on to evaluate the damage of the night distress.

Bond put his hand on partner’s naked belly instead of answering. Quatermaster rolled his eyes up, counting all the bite-marks on his hands by the way. Then he glanced to the kitchen, where in the rays of sun the mixture of wires and the scattered in some monstrous way blocks and speakers of his ne X-Box glowed, surrounded by splinters of porcelain dish and some organics once eatable.

Too shocked to scream, the quatermaster put his palms onto his temples while trying to realize everything he observed. He turned around and found a picture of more disasterous distruction. The Death Star night lamp was laying on the floor crashed in two. One of his cellphones was desperately vibrating nearby, as if praying for the hacker to make him a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The floor was covered with white splinters and black sroke marks that obviously had something to do with Bond’s dirty feet that he did not find time to clean when he came home that made Q think he was much more drunk than it seemed at the beginning. To complete the home apocalypse of the quatermaster that once allowed the hurricane indexed zero-zero-seven into his flat there was a pile of clothes in the corridor, buried under the hanger, mercilessly teared out of the wall and covered with the whitewash dust.   

“James… How comes it that I’ve missed by sleeping the attack of the hell legions on my flat?!”

“Objective “catpiss” found and destroyed,” murmured Bond almost incomprehensively, raising his bloated eyelids. The cat laying on him started to purr intensively after hearing his name. “Are you unhappy with something?”

Q breathed heavily, stroked his face with his palm and bended to the bed cabinet to take a medikit from the upper box that he had been holding in there since agent double-oh-seven “moved” into his flat.

“Now I see why there have been so many times they wished to kick you out of MI-6,” he took some hydrogen peroxide on the cotton wool with an usual gesture and started to process metodically all the injures that Bond got in the night fight. The cat ran away off the strong smell immediately. The agent smiled with satisfaction.

“James has unequalled talent to crush everything on his way and pretend that it is me to blame.”

“Next time remind me not to ever give you any tasks in the walls of this flat.”

“You do like to give conflicting instructions.”

Q wished to continue the quarrel, but double-oh-seven, delicate as always, interrupted him by holding his waist, pulling him closer and kissing hard on his lips, allowing him just to utter a short displeased moan.

Both cats rejoined on the computer desk. The grey questionally purred at the black one that was cautiously observing his master’s toes. After giving few more seconds to this enchanting perfomance, he turned to the Scott and licked his nose. In the next instance both cats loudly fell down on the floor together with keyboard. Q turned to the noise and rolled his eyes gloomily. Bond sneered significantly.

“Now that clearly was not me.”


End file.
